


Under The Old Apple Tree

by imogenbynight



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fairy!Castiel, Fluff, M/M, Shrinking, Spells & Enchantments, True Love's Kiss, the following tropes are spoilers:
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-07
Updated: 2015-01-08
Packaged: 2018-03-06 11:38:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3133013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imogenbynight/pseuds/imogenbynight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he was a kid, Dean's mom told him stories about fairies at the bottom of the garden. Somehow, she forgot to mention that they were real.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [deathbycoldopen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathbycoldopen/gifts).



> This is a gift for deathbycoldopen. Happy Birthday, little dot! I hope you enjoy the fluff ♥ ♥ ♥

The house is just as it was when Dean last visited. Mary's influence lingers in every corner.

A vase, overflowing with flowers, still sits on the windowsill, though the petals have already started to fall, and as he walks into the quiet kitchen Dean can’t help but feel guilty for the month he let pass between visits.

He only lives half an hour away--much closer than his brother whose visits require airfares and overnight bags--so usually, he makes a point of coming around for dinner once or twice a week. Since spring kicked in, though, he’s been up to his ears in custom furniture orders. If memory serves, it’s been thirty-three days since he saw his mother. He knows for a fact that nobody else has seen her in two.

The police left around half an hour ago, having combed the entire house for some evidence that she might have left on her own steam, or some indication that she was taken, but everything is in it’s right place. Her car is in the drive, her cell phone is plugged into the kitchen wall, her keys are hanging on the hook by the door. Wherever she went, she went on foot, and she went without a struggle.

That, at least, is something Dean is trying to take solace in.

“Did she have any kind of memory trouble?” the younger cop had asked shortly after they’d gone through the house, pen poised over his notepad, and Dean just stood in the living room and shook his head. Answered too many questions with, “I don’t know,” and then they left with a promise to be in touch.

He still has to call Sam. He isn’t sure what he is meant to say. A glance at his watch tells him it’s a little after five, making it just after three in Palo Alto, which means his brother is still in class and won’t pick up the phone. I’ll call him in an hour, he thinks, and makes a vague attempt at starting on dinner, but the scent of cinnamon is all but soaked into the wood grain of the kitchen cabinets, and by the sink there’s a pie pan resting on the drainer. At once he’s hungry for his mom’s home made apple pie, and nothing at all.

So he stands by the window, looking out at the gray clouds hanging heavy with unshed rain, and asks himself the same question he’s been asking since he got a call from Mary’s boss telling him she hadn’t turned up for work; where did she go?

Through the window, he can see Krissy Chambers, the eight-year-old daughter of his mother’s neighbor, crouched behind purple hyacinth and pink snapdragon. He’s known her since she was born, a couple of years before he moved out of home, but it’s been a while since he saw her. Right now she’s covered in dirt, her hair tangled around the few flowers she’s stuck in it.

The door from the kitchen to the backyard creaks when he pushes it open, and it’s not until he hears it that he realizes he’s started moving. Outside, the air smells of approaching rain and flowers. The sound of some story Krissy is telling herself floats up on the spring breeze as Dean makes his way toward her.

“What are you playing, kiddo?” he asks when he gets close enough, and she looks up with wide, startled eyes before she recognizes him.

“I’m not playing,” she says, lifting her chin and narrowing her eyes at him, “I’m talking to the fairies.”

“Fairies, hey?”

Carefully, he crouches down to peer at her through the leaves.

“Aunty Mary says the garden fairies live in the apple tree,” Krissy tells him, and Dean musters a smile even though the casual mention of his mom makes his chest ache.

“She used to tell me and Sammy the same thing, when we were your age.”

Krissy nods, chewing on the inside of her cheek like she’s not sure if she should say what she’s thinking, but with a quick glance over to her own house she makes up her mind.

“I was gonna ask them if they knew where she went,” she whispers. “You can help me if you want.”

There’s something tight and painful in the base of Dean’s throat, and his eyes prickle, and he shuffles through the flowers to sit with Krissy in the damp soil.

“Sure thing,” he tells her, trying to get comfortable on the lumpy earth. “Should I start?”

“They aren’t here yet,” she whispers, with the air of someone who knows far more than him about the subject. “You scared them away. They won’t come back until we’re quiet.”

“Oh,” Dean says. “Sorry.”

He can feel the damp rapidly soaking through his jeans, but it’s nice down here. Quiet and calm and clear-aired. He breathes deeply and looks at the base of the apple tree nearby, surrounded by the flowers and glossy leaves that Mary always tends to so carefully, and waits. Overhead, the sky rumbles a little, and Dean is about to suggest Krissy gets back to her house before the spring shower when he sees a flash of royal blue over near the poppies.

“Hey, there’s a butterfly,” he says, pointing it out, and Krissy slaps his raised hand as the butterfly darts suddenly down, disappearing under the flowers.

“Don’t point!” Krissy says, horrified, but before he can ask what's wrong he hears the back door of the Chambers’ house swing open.

“Krissy! Bath time!”

“Good luck,” Krissy tells him, and then she’s crawling back through the shrubs into her own yard, sneakers skidding a little in the dirt. Distantly, Dean hears Lee Chambers asking his daughter how on earth she managed to get herself so filthy, and then the two of them are back inside their house, leaving Dean alone in the quiet garden.

He sits there for a couple of minutes, breathing in the cool air until he feels the first drop of rain hit his face. The sky has grown a little darker in the east, the clouds tinged pink to the west, and Dean figures it’s about time he called his brother. But as he pushes to his feet, dusting away the leaves and dirt clinging to his jeans, he glances back toward the apple tree and sees another butterfly flitting around below it’s branches, this one with wings of gold. It’s unusual, to say the least, and he steps forward to look at it more closely as another few raindrops land on his face.

He’s halfway over the poppies, lifting one hand to push a low-hanging apple tree branch out of the way when the gold butterfly darts suddenly toward him, reaching out with her pale fingers to--

“What the hell?”

The understanding that he’s not actually looking at a butterfly barely has time to fully form in his mind before what is undeniably a fairy has tapped his finger and flown away, long, red hair flashing. As she vanishes into the leaves, Dean feels a lurch low in the pit of his stomach, a strange sensation not unlike falling from a great height. His head spins, and the world around him warps and bends and grows, shooting upward in a blur of light and color and sound.

The ground, when he’s aware of it beneath his feet again, feels bigger. Softer. Like he might sink into it if he’s not careful about where he stands. He stares down at it for a long moment, and it’s only when raindrop lands nearby and sends up an arc of dirt and water big enough to reach his waist that he drags his gaze away from his feet. The sight of the garden around him is enough to make him want to close his eyes and tell himself he’s having a nightmare.

But the smell of rain is too sharp, the flowers too sweet to be a figment of his imagination, and he knows, instinctively, intuitively, that this is real.

Around him, the poppy stalks are green and fuzzy and enormous. When he tilts his head up he sees the bright flowers swaying far above him, buffeted by raindrops that are steadily growing more frequent and threatening to drown him if he isn’t careful. I need to get inside, he thinks, but the house might as well be miles away, now. It’s when he looks around for something to hide under before the rain gets any heavier that he sees it.

Or, more accurately, _him_.

Laying prone in the dirt beside a bent poppy, is a dark-haired man of around Dean’s age, his face turned to the side and twisted into a pained grimace. On his back, the royal blue wings that Dean had mistaken for those of a butterfly twitch feebly, barely managing to move.

“Holy fuck,” Dean breathes, and the man--the fairy--opens his eyes to stare at him, his hands digging into the dirt.

“Don’t come any closer,” the fairy says, his voice a low rasp, throaty and deep.

Another raindrop slams into the ground between them, sending water and dirt over the man’s face, and though he coughs he makes no move to stand. Just pulls at the dirt beneath himself like he’s trying to crawl away.

“You’re hurt,” Dean says, a little dumbly, and the man just goes on staring at him.

“Understatement.”

“Is it your…” Dean gulps, takes a deep breath, and gestures toward the limp wings at the man’s back. “Um. Your wi… your wings?”

“Obviously.”

“They’re broken?”

“And you’re the one who broke them,” the man spits back, and Dean flinches at the venom in his voice. Another raindrop explodes between them, and Dean takes a half step back, looking for something close that he might be able to drag the guy underneath. Another plant, at least. Anything that isn’t a poppy, all stem and no shelter. There’s nothing.

“Can you stand?”

For too long, the man just stares up at him like he’s crazy, like he isn’t entirely sure why Dean isn’t finishing him off. Only when another three raindrops slam into the earth in fast succession does he answer with a brief shake of the head.

“My wings are too heavy like this,” he says. “They’re a dead weight. I can’t--”

“Then I’ll help,” Dean cuts him off, and before he can protest he crouches down and hooks his hands under the fairy’s arms, ignoring the pissy expression on his face as he pulls him to standing. He staggers a little weak on his feet, and clutches at Dean’s arm, chin bumping against Dean’s shoulder.

“I feel like I should ask your name,” Dean says, tightening his hold and making sure not to touch the soft-looking wings as the man’s dark hair tickles against his neck, “now that we’re getting all cozy.”

At that, the fairy leans away, and the expression that flits across his face makes Dean regret the joke until he clears his throat and it softens a little.

“Castiel,” he says.

“Well Castiel, I’m Dean, and we need to get under cover.”

Castiel’s eyes dart briefly toward the apple tree, and in his head, Dean hears his mother’s voice telling him that’s where the fairies live. For a moment, he closes his eyes and tries to wake up, but it’s useless. This is definitely reality. It’s completely absurd, but it’s reality.

“There,” Castiel says, tilting his chin to the left of the apple tree, “there’s an old beehive just past the primrose.”

The distance from the poppies to the hive, Dean knows, is around five feet. Ordinarily, he could take three paces and be there. Now, he’s forced to weave between bushes and rocks he’d usually step over, half-carrying an injured fairy who bites off his groans of discomfort every time his wings bump into the rain-heavy leaves, and it takes almost thirty minutes. The sun has already started setting. Dean doesn’t want to think about how long it would take to get up to the house.

They’re soaked by the time they get there, but thankfully the rain waits until they’ve settled under the shelter of the wooden hive before it shifts gear and becomes a true downpour.

Water runs from the white-painted wood, dripping constantly and creating a puddle of thick mud between them and the rest of the garden. Beside him, Castiel kneels in the growing dark and breathes deeply, his wings still twitching. Dean feels sick.

“I’m gonna be sick,” he says, and holds his hands out under the dripping water to catch some and splash it onto his face. It helps a little. It helps enough that he can focus on the injured fairy beside him without freaking out.

“Are you okay?” he asks, and raises his hands in apology when Castiel shoots a glare over his shoulder.

“What do you think?”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“I think you’ve done enough.”

Frowning, Dean drops onto the ground beside him to study him properly for the first time. Though his face is currently pulled into a scowl, he’s got handsome features; bright blue eyes the color of his wing tips, a sharp nose, messy dark hair and a shadow of stubble on his angular jaw. At his back, the wings look whole but useless. As though the muscles meant to control them that have stopped working. Dean feels guilt bloom in his chest.

“You said I broke your wings,” he says, and Castiel narrows his eyes further. “But you were like that when I found you.”

"You pointed at me.”

“What, before? When you were flying?”

Castiel nods.

“I thought you were a butterfly,” Dean says.

Castiel looks at him in disbelief.

“Don’t you know what happens to fairies when you point at them?”

“I don’t--” Dean cuts himself off as he remembers one of his mother’s stories, and swallows. “they die. I mean… in all the old stories, pointing kills fairies. But I didn’t… I didn’t think it was...”

Dean gestures helplessly around.

“Fairies aren’t real,” he finishes, finally, and Castiel squints at him.

“Silly me,” Castiel says, “here I was thinking I existed.”

Rolling his eyes, Dean lets out a groan.

“But it’s not… you’re obviously still alive, so that--”

“When you point at a fairy, that fairy loses their ability to fly,” Castiel says coldly, “death is not instantaneous, but it is the inevitable outcome. I’m easy prey, now. For birds, rodents, heavy rain. Had I not hit those poppies I would probably have been killed on impact.”

Dean’s stomach lurches again, and he swallows bile.

“I’m sorry,” he says. He knows it’s not nearly enough. It’s still all he has. “I didn’t think.”

Castiel doesn’t answer. For what feels like hours, they sit under the shelter of the beehive and wait for the rain to ease. It’s full dark by the time it slows, and Dean pats the pockets of his jeans until he finds his lighter.

“Hey, she shrunk my zippo,” he says with a grin, flicking it open. Castiel looks over at him with a furrow in his brow, the flame reflecting bright in his eyes.

“What?”

“Your friend. Y’know. Red hair, gold wings. Turned me into Tiny Tim.”

“Anna,” Castiel says with a nod. “She must have returned to Avalon when the rain got too heavy. She’ll be worried. She probably thinks I’m dead.”

“Sorry,” Dean says again, and Castiel shrugs, picking at a clump of dirt in front of him.

“She probably thinks you’re dead, too.”

“Why would she think that?”

“Why do you think she charmed you?”

Dean just shakes his head. He’s got no clue. Castiel raises his eyebrows as if that’s going to help, then sighs.

“She thought you’d killed me,” he says. “Shrinking you at dusk during a rain storm is tantamount to slitting your throat. She likely thought that if you didn’t drown, you’d make a nice evening meal for a screech owl.”

As if on cue, the sound of heavy wing beats sounds nearby, and Dean shuffles a little further under the beehive.

“Remind me not to piss her off again,” Dean says.

“If we manage to survive the night, I will.”

There’s something dry in his tone that sounds almost like humor, and Dean studies him in the dark to see if he can make out any shifts in his expression. The slight rise of his mouth is evidence enough.

“So,” he says, settling back against the smooth wood of the beehive’s leg, “you all live in the apple tree, right?”

Castiel looks at him suspiciously.

“How did you know that?”

“I’ve known that fairies live in the apple tree since I was old enough to walk,” Dean says, waving his hand in the air, and Castiel’s eyes only grow more distrustful.

“I thought you didn’t believe in fairies,” he says. Dean laughs.

“I don’t. I mean, I didn’t,” he shakes his head. “It’s just… when I was a kid, my brother and I got told that there were fairies in that apple tree.”

“You grew up here?”

“Lived here 'til I was twenty-one,” Dean says with a nod. “Kinda can’t believe I never found out there were actual fairies in my backyard until now, to be honest. Seems like something I maybe should’ve noticed.”

“We very rarely show ourselves to humans,” Castiel tells him, though his eyes are distant, gazing toward the apple tree.

“I can kinda see why,” Dean says, and when Castiel looks back at him he shifts uncomfortably. “I’m really sorry about your wings, man. I… are you sure there’s nothing I can do?”

“I’m sure,” Castiel tells him. “Though now that the rain has stopped, perhaps we could try to get back to the tree? We’ll need to find Anna to have you restored to your proper size, and I think… I could be wrong, but I believe… Dean, is this your mother’s house?”

At that, Dean perks up.

“You’ve seen my mom?”

“Is your mother Mary Winchester?”

Dean feels his stomach bottom out, and all the breath leaves his lungs in a low whoosh. He nods.

“She went missing,” he says, watching Castiel’s face for any hint of what he’s going to say, “two days ago. That’s why I’m here. Please tell me you’ve seen her. Tell me she’s okay.”

For a second, Castiel hesitates, and Dean feels stretched too thin. Like he might float away if the breeze gets too strong. It takes everything he has not to get angry and demand answers, and finally Castiel seems to decide that Dean is worth trusting, because he gives a tiny nod.

“She’s in Avalon,” he says, and Dean slumps in relief. “Joshua, the gardener… he found her unconscious here and had no way of contacting anyone in the human world. She has been a great help to him over the years, so he decided to bring her back to help her.”

“Has she woken up? Is she okay?”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says with a furrow in his brow. “I really don’t know. I haven’t seen her since she was carried through the great hall. Last I heard, she was still in Joshua’s care.”

With that, Castiel pushes to his feet, straining with the weight of his wings until Dean catches his elbow to steady him.

“You sure you’re up to walking?” Dean asks him, and Castiel gives him a hopeful smile.

“I’m tougher than I look,” he says.

Still, he hooks an arm around Dean’s shoulders when offered, and they set off into the garden, carefully weaving through dense stems and dodging leaves that hold tremulous drops of water.

The garden bed is little more than a swamp after all the rain, and if not for Castiel’s warnings, Dean would have found himself drowning in mud within minutes. Overhead, the sky has finally cleared enough to let the moon light their way, and the pale blue glow combined with the breeze makes the waving snapdragons look like monstrous creatures in Dean’s periphery. He startles, glancing toward them, and breathes out in relief when he realizes what they are.

“I can see at least five things more threatening than those flowers right now,” Castiel murmurs from beside him, and Dean looks across at him, wide eyed until he realizes he’s being laughed at.

“Shut up,” he says, feeling his face burn in embarrassment, and Castiel just smiles at him.

For a moment, it’s actually kind of nice. Castiel’s arm is a warm, pleasant weight across his shoulders, and as frightening as it is, the garden really is beautiful up close like this. Then Castiel says, “avoid that mud. It’s a sinkhole.” and Dean stops enjoying himself.

“How do you survive out here?” he asks.

“Normally, I can fly,” Castiel replies simply, without any trace of venom though Dean thinks he’d be well within his rights to still be angry. Instead, he just leans a little heavier against Dean’s shoulder as he adds; “steer clear of that shrub. There’s a large spider.”

Dean’s detour around the shrub adds a decent chunk of time onto their journey, but he isn’t exactly a fan of large spiders when he’s human sized. Right now, barely six inches tall, he can’t think of much that’s more terrifying. He can’t stop thinking about the spider as they walk, and every twitch of a leaf makes him glance around in steadily increasing panic.

“Talk about something,” he says as they approach the edge of the poppies, their bright flowers like a red forest canopy. “Something not spider related.”

“Rats?” Castiel suggests, and Dean snorts.

“Asshole. I’m serious. The thought of bugs being big enough to eat me is giving me some intense heebie jeebies right now.”

“That’s not surprising,” Castiel allows, then sighs. “I’m not sure what to talk about.”

Ahead, there’s a gardening trowel half buried in the soil among the poppies, and Dean looks up at it as they approach.

“You said my mom knew this Joshua guy…”

“She’s been considered a friend to the fairies since before I was born.”

“You’re kidding me,” Dean says, raising his brow, and Castiel shakes his head.

“As for Joshua… they’re both gardeners,” Castiel says with a shrug. “She gave him gifts of seeds that don’t grow naturally in Avalon, and he returned some to her. It’s why he was out here when he found her. He was bringing her seeds for a sunrose.”

“This actually explains a lot.”

“It does?”

“She always has flowers in the kitchen,” Dean says, tilting his chin toward the house, “and I remember when I was about ten, this old woman who lived next door came around to complain about something--she used to do that a lot--and when she saw the flowers she got all huffy asking what kind they were, because she was an expert and had never seen them before. Mom just kept saying they’re magic, obviously.” Dean laughs. “I always thought she was just saying it to annoy her. Turns out she was serious.”

Castiel lets out a low laugh.

“She was probably doing that, too,” he says, his eyes crinkling at the edges as he looks over at Dean. “I’ve only met her twice, but I got the impression she’s not one to be trifled with.”

“That’s my mom,” Dean answers with a grin.

As they step out from the poppies, Dean’s foot lands on a glistening silver trail, sticky under his shoe, and he follows it with his gaze until he sees a slow moving snail ten paces away. Relative to him, it’s big enough to ride, and he briefly entertains the mental image of a snail with a saddle.

“Why have we stopped?” Castiel asks him, and when Dean looks back at him he finds a curious expression on his face. “What are you laughing at?”

Dean nods toward the snail, careful not to point.

“You ever ride one of those?”

Leaning past him to see what he’s talking about, Castiel snorts and rolls his eyes.

“Children ride snails,” he says.

“Well excuse me, Mister Bigshot,” Dean says, starting toward the tree again. “What do you ride, then? Scorpions?”

“I could,” Castiel tells him haughtily. “If I wanted to.”

Dean laughs, and beside him, he sees Castiel smiling. It feels like a victory, somehow.

“What were you doing out here today, anyway?” Dean asks.

“I like your mother’s garden,” Castiel says, lifting his shoulder in a shrug. “There are bees.”

“You know, if snails aren’t your thing, you could probably get a whole bunch of bees and have them pull you around on a leaf or something,” Dean says.

“I would look ridiculous.”

“You’d look awesome.”

“I’ll take that into consideration.”

Dean laughs again, and Castiel’s arm tightens briefly around his shoulders as they emerge from the flower bed, finally at the base of the apple tree. It’s trunk is gnarled and old, and the ground beneath it is littered with white blossoms.

“How do we--” Dean starts, but before he’s finished asking, Castiel has pressed his palm to a knot in the wood, and a gap appears beside it as though it had always been there. “Never mind.”

“Glamor,” Castiel says by way of explanation, and lets go of Dean’s shoulder to make his way through the narrow gap. Dean follows close behind. Something shimmers as he passes through, like dust motes in a sunbeam, and to Dean’s surprise he finds himself not in the damp, musty space he’d expected, but in what looks like a vast, bright hall with walls of polished wood, decorated with intricate loops and whorls that he knows from his own work would have taken hours upon hours of careful carving.

Every so often, the wood of the walls is dotted with tiny pinprick lights of gold and pale green, and they cast a warm glow over the wide space. With each step he takes, the air shimmers again, and by the time he's ten paces inside he can see dozens of fairies flitting around what appears to be a marketplace in the center of the hall.

They’re dressed differently to Castiel, for the most part. Where Castiel wears a kind of black v-necked tunic that puts Dean in mind of a gi, the majority of the other fairies wear loose-fitting dresses or drawstring pants in bright colors.

A few of them pause in their work to look at him, but something in Castiel’s determined expression stops them from asking questions.

Walking along side him, with Castiel’s hand pressing into his shoulder, Dean tilts his head to whisper, “What are you, a cop or something?”

“I’m a guard.”

Before Dean can ask anything else, like what exactly he’s a guard of, a tall, dark-skinned fairy with freckles scattered over his nose stops them, his maroon wings speckled with gold.

“We feared you might not make it back,” he says in place of a greeting, eyeing Castiel’s broken wings as though they are a personal slight against him, “Anna said you fell from a great height.”

“I did. I will live.”

Uriel nods and looks over at Dean.

“And this is the human who wounded you?” he asks.

“Accidentally,” Dean says, nudging Castiel. “Right, Cas?”

Uriel raises an eyebrow at Dean’s casual tone, and when Dean turns away from him to look at Castiel he sees a tinge of pink in his cheeks.

“The harm he caused was through ignorance, not intention,” Castiel confirms, avoiding Dean’s eyes. “And he has made every effort to help me since.”

“But why is he here? One human in our midst is enough, and from what I’ve heard Joshua has no plans to send her back any time soon.”

“She is why,” Castiel says.

Uriel’s eyes widen a little in understanding, and he tips his chin toward the doorway they had been approaching.

“Anna is with them, too,” he says. “She will be relieved to see you, Castiel.”

With that, Uriel leaves, lifting off the ground with one swift beat of wings. Dean exhales.

“Well he was a barrel of laughs,” he says.

“He works below me,” Castiel says, making his way toward the doorway, “I expect he’s a little disappointed that I made it back, and a little guilty for being disappointed.”

“Like I said--barrel of laughs.”

The doorway leads to a narrow tunnel, and at it’s end they pass through another shimmering cloud and out into far too much light for the evening. Dean lifts a hand to shield his eyes. Above them, the sky is awash with blues and greens, swirling lights that flare bright in his eyes, and the road that winds away from the tree reflects silvery and bright.

There's some kind of town ahead, pale, round structures suspended off the ground on the branches of white trees. Far beyond them, a few massive trees stand, and even at a distance Dean can make out lights shining from what appear to be windows all along their trunks.

“Wow,” Dean says.

“She’s in there,” Castiel tells him, gesturing toward the tree to the left, and they slowly make their way toward it.

“You’re looking a bit better,” Dean tells him as they pass through the town. “Steadier.”

“I’m getting used to the weight,” Castiel agrees, glancing over his shoulder at the wings which still hang useless at his back before turning his gaze toward one of the small structures suspended in the trees. “Though I’ll admit I’m far more tired than I’m letting on. Do you mind if we stop for a moment?”

“It’s fine,” Dean cuts in, happy to stop walking for a few minutes. “Go ahead.”

“This way,” Castiel tells him.

Surprised that he’s actually being invited in, Dean follows him to a narrow ladder under the structure and waits for him to climb inside before he follows.


	2. Chapter 2

Castiel’s home is roomier than Dean expected and curved all around, like some kind of elevated hobbit hole. When climbs through the round door he sees Castiel attempting to straighten up, shoving a stack of papers out of sight beneath a low table and fluffing a cushion that looks as though it might be made from a giant purple rose petal.

“I don’t entertain many guests,” he says in response to Dean’s raised brow, and Dean can’t help but laugh.

“Buddy, if you think this is messy, you should see the state of my place.”

It’s a blatant lie, of course--Dean’s fastidious nature means his house barely looks lived in when he’s in a good mood--but it wipes the worry from Castiel’s face, so Dean can’t bring himself to feel bad about it.

“Seriously,” he adds, “your house is awesome.”

“It’s a bower,” Castiel tells him. “But thank you.”

“Noted, and you’re welcome.”

Castiel’s cheeks grow a little pink, and Dean rubs at the back of his neck, casting around for something else to say.

“Do you need a change of clothes?” Castiel asks before he can think of anything, still holding the cushion as he looks Dean up and down with a furrowed brow. “I don’t know if any of my tunics will be suitable considering your lack of wings, but if your pants are uncomfortable from all the rain--”

“Nah, I’m good. Most of the mud caked off by the time we got to the tree.”

“Alright,” he says, inexplicably handing the cushion to Dean, “I won’t be long.”

As Castiel turns away, crossing the room and pulling himself up through a slightly raised archway into what must be his bedroom, Dean inspects the cushion a little more closely. It’s velvet soft, and when he squeezes it he catches a scent like wine. If it’s not made from a petal, it’s doing a damn good impersonation of one.

Carefully, he places it among the others on the floor around the table and walks around the room, taking in the shelves that follow the curve of the walls, stacked with books and little carvings and what appears to be a collection of green ocean glass, smoothed by sand and time.

The ceiling is curved upward, a circular skylight in the center letting in the filtered light of the aurora overhead.

How sure am I that I didn’t suffer a concussion today? he wonders, and turns in place, looking toward another raised archway that leads into a kitchen, and another with a hanging curtain in front of it that he suspects is the bathroom.

At the sound of a low curse from Castiel’s room, Dean hurries toward the archway and freezes when he sees him shirtless, twisting around as he attempts to disentangle his black tunic from his uncooperative wings. Guilt mingles with attraction, making Dean feel like hell all around, and rather than get caught staring he backs up, clearing his throat from the opposite side of the room and calling out, “You okay in there, Cas?”

“I’m fine,” Castiel calls back, muffled by the wall, and Dean sinks down beside the table. Stares up at the curved ceiling.

The rest of the cushions are just as soft as the purple one. He breathes in and catches the scent of a summer garden. It makes him think of his mother, of the countless afternoons he spent in the backyard playing with Sam while she worked down in the flower bed, and again he’s amazed that there was a whole other world there all along.

He wonders briefly if Castiel ever came outside when he was young, and for a moment gets lost in a daydream of what it might have been like to have a fairy as a friend while he was growing up. Would another fairy have cast a charm on him like Anna did, to make him small enough to climb the flower stems? Perhaps, he thinks, he would have seen Castiel as he learned to fly. He wonders if he was graceful or clumsy, and the memory of him plummeting from the air when Dean pointed at him flashes sudden and vivid in his mind. It jars the fantasy, and when Castiel finally emerges from his room, Dean is frowning down at his own hands, regret weighing heavy on his shoulders.

“Are you hungry?”

Dean looks up, half expecting to see Castiel in the same kind of flowy tie-dyed silk that the rest of the fairies were wearing. Instead, he’s dressed in dark wool pants and a shorter, white tunic shirt, and it looks like he’s tried--and failed--to flatten his hair.

He looks good. He looks more than good. Dean clears his throat.

“Um,” he says, and shakes his head, having completely forgotten what he was asked.

“Would you like anything to eat?” Castiel asks, tilting his head a little to the side and raising a hand to rub absentmindedly at his hair. “Or to drink? It will take us about an hour to walk to Joshua’s.”

“If you’re eating, yeah.”

Castiel smiles a little, and nods to himself before climbing through the archway into the kitchen, and Dean hears the sound of him opening cupboards and shuffling things around.

It’s only a few moments before he’s crossing the room toward Dean with a tray made from a wide, dark woodchip, balancing two carved wooden cups, bread the color of beets, some sort of pastry, and an assortment of fruit he doesn’t recognize. He stands to take the tray, placing it onto the low table and sitting back down on the rose cushion as Castiel sinks onto another on the other side.

His wings have lost a little of their brightness, but in the warmth of his home, his eyes look bluer than ever. When Castiel looks at him with confusion, Dean realizes he’s been staring for far too long and averts his eyes, searching for something to say.

“I make furniture,” he blurts out, and immediately scrunches his face up because even in his own head that sounded awkward.

“What?”

“I um, I make furniture? For work,” he clarifies. “I figured, since you told me your job, I’d, uh… yeah. I make furniture.”

“Oh,” Castiel says, breaking a lump of bread into smaller pieces, and nodding as though Dean isn’t the most socially inept person in the world. “Do you enjoy it?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, glad that his utter lack of grace appears to have gone unnoticed. “I like to work with my hands, I like creating things. Makes me feel useful.”

“How about you, do you like your work?”

“It’s rewarding,” Castiel says, handing over a piece of the bread, “though somewhat taxing. But I’ve never done anything else.”

Dean takes a bite of the bread and his eyes roll back in his head at the taste. He’s got ten different compliments lined up when Castiel speaks again, and the bread turns to ash in his mouth as his heart sinks all the way to his stomach.

“I suppose I’ll need to find something else to do, now. I don’t imagine I’ll be much use in the guard now that I can’t fly.”

Without thinking, Dean puts down the bread and reaches across the table to rest his palm on Castiel’s hand. He doesn’t quite have the words for how sorry he is. Castiel still seems to hear them.

He musters a half smile and plucks a small purple fruit from the tray, holding it out toward Dean like a peace offering.

“Have you ever had a plumberry?” he asks.

“Considering that isn’t a real thing,” Dean says, taking the fruit with a smile, “no, I have not.”

For a fruit that doesn’t exist, the plumberry is amazing, and Dean eats three of them before he realizes how ravenous he is.

When he moves on to the wooden cup, the drink is cool and sweet, like the nectar from a honeysuckle flower. Hell, Dean thinks. Maybe that’s exactly what it is. He finishes it faster than he means to and moves on to the pastry, which is filled with something sweet and nutty, like the filling of a pecan pie but lighter.

“ _Cas_ ,” he all but groans through his second bite, staring at him across the table. “What _is_ this?”

“Rumnut pie,” Castiel tells him, “it’s my mother’s recipe.”

“You _made_ this?”

“Yes.”

“The bread, too?”

“I purchased the bread,” Castiel confesses, “but I did distill the sunwine myself.”

“You should be a chef,” Dean tells him, “you’d have the most popular restaurant in fairyland.”

“I doubt that,” Castiel says, a smile tugging up the corners of his mouth as he looks down at his drink. As Dean watches him blush, he feels his own lips pulling up in answer. They spend the rest of their meal in peaceful silence, smiling without quite meeting each other’s eyes. 

 

* * *

 

The walk to Joshua’s takes longer than expected, the road beneath them ill-kept and slippery.

“You know, in all the stories, Avalon is all shiny crystal palaces and perfect cobbled paths,” Dean says, stumbling over loose white stones, and Castiel looks at him with an arched brow.

“Why would beings of flight need well maintained roads?” he asks.

 _Good point_ , Dean thinks. He shrugs.

“I don’t know, man. I guess the stories got some stuff wrong.”

“What else did they say?”

“About Avalon?” Dean asks, and Castiel nods. “I don’t know. I remember some stuff about fairies, though. Like, um… you can’t lie?”

“Yes we can,” Castiel says, and Dean looks over at him, catching the smirk on his face.

“Strike two, fairy tales. Another one said you couldn’t see sugar without counting every grain, but that’s obviously not true or you’d never be able to cook anything, and I know you cook. What else… Oh, clapping your hands--wait!”

Dean stops walking and starts furiously clapping his hands, and Castiel looks at him like he’s lost his mind. His wings don’t budge.

“What are you doing?”

“I believe in you?” Dean says hopefully, and Castiel squints at him.

“Thank you?” he says. Dean’s shoulders slump.

“Okay, apparently that one’s crap, too.”

Thankfully, Castiel doesn’t ask for clarification, and they start moving again. After a moment, he makes a thoughtful sound.

“Do any of your stories mention our skill at finding lost items?”

“I don’t know… maybe?”

“I know there are many stories about us stealing human children, which I must inform you are patently untrue. There may have been one or two fairies over the years who did this, but they are not representative of the rest of us.”

“I believe you, Cas,” Dean says with a laugh, and Castiel smiles at him.

“Good. What else… we cannot be burned, iron is toxic to us, we can influence flowers to grow, and--”

Castiel looks over toward a pale green shrub at the edge of the path, and waves his hand toward it. The leaves shimmer, turning to gold, and Dean widens his eyes.

“I assume this means you’re gonna help me get rich,” Dean says, and Castiel snorts as the leaves quickly fade back to green.

“It’s just a glamor,” he explains.  “A trick of the eye.”

“Damn.”

They keep walking, and are almost halfway to the tree when Castiel slips, falling to his knees when he tries to balance with wings that no longer work. His palms scratch open on the stones. He winces when Dean tries to wash the dirt from them with water from the pouch he filled at his bower, but lets him do it.

“I forgot,” he says quietly, “when I started to trip. I forgot they were broken.”

Dean offers his arm.

“You need to lean on me again?” he asks, and Castiel thinks about it for a long moment before sighing and accepting the help.

“I’m sure I’ll get used to it,” he says a little further up the road. “My balance is just a little off.”

“Is there really no way to fix them?” Dean asks, hopeful, and he feels Castiel shrug beside him.

“I won’t be able to fly again.”

Dean swallows his apology, knowing it will only sound more hollow and useless every time he says it, and takes as much of Castiel’s weight as he needs.

When they finally reach the tree, the sun has started to rise, draining the aurora from the sky and coloring it dusty pink.

“Time passes differently in Avalon,” Castiel tells him when Dean looks down at his watch, “it’s around midnight on Earth.”

The tree, Dean realizes as they step inside, is like a town in itself. A signpost at the center of the cavernous room at it’s base announces directions to a seamstress, an apothecary, and a bank, among other things, and he’s busy reading it when he hears a commotion overhead.

“He’s back!” someone says.

“Castiel is alive!” someone else cries out.

“I’ll tell Hannah and Balthazar,” a third voice says.

By the time Dean looks up, most of the fairies have dispersed, and he sees Anna descending from somewhere much higher up, her golden wings thrumming fast. In moments, she lands light as a feather on the glossy ground and catches Castiel’s cheeks in her hands, her eyes alight and wet with tears.

“Oh thank the mother,” she breathes, her expression joyous as she takes him in. “When I saw you fall from so high up, I thought… I truly thought you were lost.”

“I’m fine, Anna,” Castiel assures her, patting her hand where it still rests on his face.

“The rain was getting too heavy,” she tells him. “I couldn’t stay.”

“I know. It’s alright. I’m fine.”

“But you--” Anna starts, still teary-eyed, but cuts herself off when she finally notices Dean standing beside Castiel. Her features shift from relieved to furious in an instant.

“ _You_ ,” she growls, advancing on him.

“Hi,” Dean says, smiling in an attempt to appear non-threatening, and hears Castiel attempt to stifle a laugh beside him as he sticks out a hand. “I’m Dean.”

“You’re the monster who--”

“Dean Winchester,” Castiel says, putting far more emphasis on his last name than Dean thinks is necessary, and Anna stops speaking to look at him with shock.

“As in--”

“Yes,” Castiel says. “He is good, Anna. He has helped me a great deal.”

“He almost killed you,” she says.

“And I have forgiven him for that,” Castiel says, and Dean feels a weight inside him lift, even though he feels as though he still ought to carry it.

With a heavy sigh, Anna crosses her arms over her chest.

“You should go see Flagstaff,” she tells him. “Perhaps there’s something she can do for your wings.”

“Is she in the apothecary’s chambers?” Castiel asks, and she nods. “Alright. Will you tell Joshua we’re here?”

Anna looks somewhat reluctant, but she rises from the ground again, flying toward a kind of platform far above their heads before disappearing over it’s edge. Beside Dean, Castiel shuffles on his feet. Dean nudges him.

“Go on,” he says, “go see about your wings.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, looking up to where Anna has returned with another fairy in tow, “I’ll be fine. I’ll see you after, right?”

“Right,” Castiel says, though his eyes look a little searching, but before Dean can ask him what’s wrong he turns and walks slowly toward a low arch on the opposite side of the tree.

Joshua is a kind-eyed old man with wings of olive green, and when he sees Dean waiting, he says something to Anna, who nods before darting away.

“Dean Winchester,” Joshua says, his hands landing softly on Dean’s shoulders as he settles in front of him. “It has been a very long time.”

“We’ve met?” Dean asks in surprise, and Joshua beams.

“You were barely walking, and I was old, even then,” he says with a wave of his hand. “I’m not surprised you don’t remember.”

Anna returns, then, carrying a bundle of thick, gold ropes. As they watch, she flies up to the platform, fastening them to a hook there and letting them drop down over the edge. A ladder, Dean realizes. Joshua gestures toward it with an open palm.

“I thought you’d prefer it to being carried,” he explains, and Dean laughs as he steps up and gives the rope a cautious tug.

“Yeah, you’d be right.”

The platform, Dean discovers when he pulls himself up over the edge, leads to a wide hallway, and he follows Joshua around it’s sweeping bends. They make their way past three locked doors before Joshua stops at the fourth, tapping a strange rhythm against a bronze inset that makes some hidden lock click open.

The room inside is bright and open, it’s curved walls lined with potted flowers, and right beneath one of the stained glass windows Dean had seen on the tree from a distance is a raised, soft-looking bed. On it, his mother lays, her skin unnaturally pale as she sleeps. The sight makes his stomach lurch, and he’s across the room, kneeling at her side before he’s thought of moving.

“Mom?” he says quietly, taking her hand from where it lays on top of the covers. It’s clammy, damp and limp in his grip. Close behind him, he hears Joshua sigh.

“We can’t tell what’s wrong with her,” he says, and when Dean looks up he sees his own worry reflected back to him in the fairy’s brown eyes. “Our healer, Flagstaff, has tried every cure imaginable, both magical and medicinal… nothing seems to be working.”

“Has she woken up at all?”

“Yes,” Joshua says, coming to kneel beside Dean. “Once yesterday morning, and for a short time last night, but… she didn’t seem to be aware of her surroundings. She didn’t recognize me.”

Dean squeezes Mary’s hand in his.

“I apologize for taking her. I’m sure you were worried, but when I found her laying in the garden I… you must understand. She’s one of my oldest friends. I didn’t know how to contact anyone in the human world.”

“Hey, you were trying to help,” Dean says, looking over at him. “I appreciate it.”

With a low hum, Joshua smiles sadly.

“I only wish I knew what to do.”

Under her lids, Mary’s eyes flicker around in sleep, and Dean watches her for a long moment, listening to her steady breath.

“I should get her home,” he says eventually, looking over at Joshua. “Take her to a hospital. They might be able to figure out what’s wrong.”

“I think you’re right.”

Pushing back to his feet, Joshua holds out a hand to help Dean stand.

“I’ll have Ephraim and Rachel help carry her back to the garden,” he says. “Come, we’ll need Anna to remove her charm.”

 

* * *

 

Joshua leaves him by the signpost, telling him he’ll be back in a moment with the two fairies charged with carrying Mary back to the garden, and Dean stands in the middle of what equates to a bustling town square with a stomach full of nerves.

The fairies above barely pay him any attention, all flitting to and fro, some carrying string bags of food back to their homes, others talking loudly to one another. A young, sandy haired fairy with wings the color of burnt honey and a general air of mischief in his eyes is the only one to speak to him, but as soon as his guardian--a brother, if Dean’s guess is right--sees where he’s snuck off to, he flies away laughing.

It’s not long before Joshua returns, and he’s got one fairy with him, a pointy chinned man with hot pink wings that clash horribly with the brown of his hair and his uniform.

“This is Ephraim,” Joshua tells him, “he’s a healer. One of Flagstaff’s assistants.”

“You’ve been trying to help my mom?” Dean asks, and Ephraim inclines his head.

“I am sorry she hasn’t made any progress,” he says gravely, “we’ve removed every toxin we’ve been able to find, and yet she only seems to be getting worse.”

“It means a lot to me that you’ve tried,” Dean tells him. “I’m sure it means a lot to her, too.”

Ephraim looks a little overwhelmed by Dean’s gratitude, so Dean shoots him a small smile before looking back at Joshua, whose gaze is turned up toward the left.

“There’s Rachel,” he says, lifting off the ground and gesturing for Ephraim to follow. “Anna should be here by the time we bring her down.”

“I’ll be here,” Dean says, and Joshua spares him another smile before he and Ephraim fly swiftly up to join a blonde fairy with gray wings. He’s still watching them when he hears a familiar voice, and turns to see Castiel crossing the floor with Anna close beside him.

“You’re being absurd. To even suggest--”

“I’m just saying--”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Castiel’s voice is cold, his expression utterly closed off, and Anna purses her lips as she looks at him, clearly considering his reaction to whatever she’d suggested more than a little harsh. When they see Dean, both of them stop talking, and Dean shifts on his feet.

“Is your mother any better?” Castiel asks, his features relaxing back into something a little kinder, though his eyes still bear the signs of his irritation with his friend.

“No, she uh… they don’t know what’s wrong with her. I’m taking her home, gonna see if a doctor can figure it out.”

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Castiel says, his hand drifting up to rest briefly against Dean’s shoulder before returning to hang at his side. “I had hoped there would be better news.”

“Thanks, Cas,” Dean says, and clears his throat, eyes darting to the wings that look just as limp as they had before. “How about you? What did Flagstaff have to say?”

Castiel tenses a little, and shoots Anna a silencing look when she opens her mouth to speak.

“She said there’s a chance I will be able to control their movement again,” he says, looking back at Dean, “but it’s going to take a lot of work, and flying is out of the question.”

“If there’s something I can do to help--” Dean starts.

“There is one thing,” Anna cuts in pointedly, and Castiel frowns at her, somehow looking even angrier than before.

“Anna.”

“But--”

“I said _no_.”

Turning to Dean, Castiel holds out his hand. Dean looks at it with a confused frown.

“Thank you for bringing me home,” Castiel says, and Dean realizes he’s saying goodbye.

“Oh,” he says, a bereft kind of feeling rising up in his chest, “yeah. No problem.”

Castiel’s hand is warm in his, the skin of his palm rough and callused. Dean squeezes it in his own, reluctant to let go.

“Are you sure you’ll be okay?” he asks.

“I’ll manage.”

Dean nods, finally releasing Castiel’s hand and taking a step back, just as Joshua descends with Rachel and Ephraim, Mary suspended between the three of them on a sort of linen stretcher.

“Castiel,” Joshua says with a smile, “are you accompanying us to the garden?”

“No,” Castiel says simply, and spares Dean one last searching look before he turns back toward the apothecary. “Have a safe trip home.”


	3. Chapter 3

It’s still night when they step out into Mary’s garden, and Dean stops a few paces away from the base of the apple tree while the fairies maneuver Mary out through the gap.

“I’ll remove the charm from you first,” Anna tells him as Joshua, Rachel and Ephraim fly up over the flowers toward the lawn, carrying Mary to a space she’ll fit into when she’s back to her usual size. “Do you want us to lift you over to the grass?”

Dean shakes his head.

“Here is good,” he says, but when she reaches toward his face immediately he jerks back away from her hand. “Wait!”

Frowning, Anna lowers her hand, watching him expectantly.

“I, um… do you think Cas is gonna be okay?”

Anna narrows her eyes, her mouth a thin, disapproving line.

“That all depends,” she says.

“On what?”

“How much of a stubborn ass he decides to be.”

Dean snorts, and for a split second, Anna seems to forget herself and smiles at him.

“Well tell him that when he’s up to it, I’ll come hang out at the bottom of the garden with him.”

There’s something a little hesitant in Anna’s eyes, and Dean doesn’t like it in the least.

“What?” he asks. She shakes her head minutely.

“I don’t think… Dean, he’s not going to come to the garden again.”

“But he loves it out here,” Dean says, “why wouldn’t he--”

“It’s too dangerous for a flightless fairy,” Anna tells him, and her voice is softer than he’s ever heard it. Kinder. “There’s a reason they say a fairy who loses their wings is dead.”

It’s obvious, when he thinks about it. They almost didn’t make it to the shelter of the beehive last night, and if it had been a clear day, there’s no knowing how long it would have taken for some sharp-eyed bird to swoop down and catch them. Even with Dean at full size, he could take a wrong step and crush the guy to death. As he stares at Anna, his eyes burning, he feels an echo of the loss Castiel must feel.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” she tells him, and Dean huffs out a miserable laugh.

“I’m the asshole who caused it,” he says, spreading his hands. “Alright, Anna. Zap away.”

“It will be less disorienting if you close your eyes,” she tells him, and he believes her up until the moment her cool fingers tap his forehead and he feels like a cork being shot out of a bottle neck and into the ceiling.

His head hits a low hanging branch on the apple tree an instant later, sharp twigs gouging a scratch into his cheek, and he hisses at the sting as he bats the branch away.

“Goddamn it,” he mutters, and hears a tiny, tittering laugh as Anna darts over toward the grass.

A few seconds later, there’s a dim flash of shimmering light, and his mother is laying on the grass. He has the presence of mind to wait until he sees four sets of wings lifting away from her before he leaps over the flowers to reach her.

“Thank you,” he calls out to the seemingly empty garden, and pushes his mother’s hair back from her too-pale face before running to the house for his phone.

  

* * *

 

The ambulance arrives in less than fifteen minutes, and it’s not until Dean has followed it halfway to the hospital in his car that he remembers he needs to tell the police to call off the search. He dials the number he was given by the young cop yesterday and spins some story about her wandering back into the garden and collapsing, and the officer who answers tells him they’ll need to come see her to officially close the case.

They ask a lot of questions, and in the end Dean’s not even sure what’s he’s agreeing to, his eyes too bleary from the flashing lights of the ambulance ahead and his mind too foggy from the bizarre night he’s had.

At some point the call ends, and then he’s pulling into the hospital parking lot, running through the emergency room lobby and being stopped at a set of swinging doors by a stern woman whose name tag introduces her as Nurse Moseley.

“A doctor will be out to see you as soon as we have something to tell you,” she says, and thrusts a clipboard into his hands. “In the mean time, fill this out.”

He fills out what he can, and it’s both far quicker and far longer than he can comprehend when a man in blue scrubs and a lab coat calls him from the door.

“Mr Winchester?”

“Dean,” he says, standing and making his way past the other nervous friends and family members of the ER waiting room, “is she alright?”

“Your mother is stable,” the doctor tells him, and Dean exhales in relief.

“Do you know what was wrong?”

“It looks like her loss of consciousness was caused by a severe iron deficiency. Are you aware if she she suffered any blood loss lately? Or if there has been a significant shift in her diet?”

“Not as far as I know,” Dean says, shaking his head, and the doctor frowns.

“She’s being up to the general ward now, but she’ll need to stay until we run a few more tests to make sure the anemia isn’t being caused by any other illness.”

“What could it be?”

“There are a number of possible causes,” the doctor says vaguely, and Dean interprets the refusal to give a straight answer as a sign that none of the possibilities are good. “Like I said, we won’t know until we’ve run the tests.”

“Yeah, of course,” Dean says, and shakes the doctors hand. “Thanks.”

The doctor is gone a moment later, off to see to another patient, and Nurse Moseley points Dean down a pale blue corridor to a set of elevators. The nurse in charge of the general ward lets him duck under the curtain to see his mother briefly, before telling him to come back during visiting hours the next day, and a little before four in the morning Dean is back outside in the rain-sweet air of the parking lot.

Without really thinking about it, he ends up back at Mary’s house, despite the hospital being just as close to his own place. He stands in the doorway with his key in his hand, uncomfortable with the silence of the dark hallway in the early morning. He only walks inside when a passing car startles him out of his daze.

Mary’s laptop is on the coffee table beside one of her many vases of flowers. Dean boots it up despite his exhaustion, and does exactly what they always tell you not to do.

Web MD tells him that extreme cases of anemia can be caused by internal bleeding from a ruptured organ, or stomach ulcers, or cancer. Dean reads for far too long, getting more and more paranoid as he does.

He crashes hard when he finally shuts off the computer just before dawn, face down on the couch with an old quilt spread out over his shoulders, and doesn’t wake up until well after noon when the kitchen phone starts ringing loud in the quiet house. His eyes are still half closed when he answers it.

“Dean?” Sam says in surprise. “What are you doing there?”

Dean’s eyes are open now.

“Oh shit,” Dean says.

The following conversation is unpleasant to say the least, and ends with Sam angrily reading a newly booked flight number out three times so Dean can write it down on the Anne Geddes sunflower baby notepad their mom keeps by the phone.

“I’ll see you on Friday,” Dean says.

“Not if I kick your ass first,” Sam says, which makes little to no sense, but Dean doesn’t have it in him to mention it. Instead he wishes his brother a safe flight and ends the call, leaning against the kitchen counter and taking a deep breath before grabbing his keys and heading for the door.

He’s already got his hand on the knob when it occurs to him that he’s still wearing mud-crusted clothes, and he goes to his old room to dig through the few things he left behind in the closet. Thankfully he hasn’t grown too much in the past few years, and he used to wear his jeans a lot looser. Changing in front of the mirror, he thinks he looks like he’s stepped through a portal from the year 2000.

It’s as he’s slipping on his worn old Iron Maiden t-shirt, relishing the feeling of clean cotton, that he suddenly remembers something Castiel said as they’d made their way to Joshua. Something that Web MD didn’t account for.

Iron is toxic to fairies.

“Flagstaff removed all the toxins from her system,” he says to his own wide eyed face in the mirror, trying and failing to tamp down the relief that’s already flooding his chest. He’s still worried about what caused her to collapse in the first place, but the likelihood of her having a randomly ruptured organ or worse have dropped off significantly.

He just barely remembers to lock the door on his way out.

  

* * *

 

The hospital is busy when he arrives, and he has to wait in a line to sign himself in as a visitor.

Mary is awake when he pushes back the pink curtain around her bed, sitting up against a couple of white pillows and eating red jello from a plastic cup. She still looks a little pale, and her eyes are visibly tired, but when she sees him she smiles, and Dean could just about fall over with relief.

“Jello?” she asks him, holding out the cup, and he laughs, shaking his head as he leans in to kiss her cheek.

“You scared the crap out of me,” he says, closing his eyes as he leans his head against hers, and she pats him weakly on the cheek. The plastic of the drip in her arm is cool against his skin.

“I’m sorry, honey,” she says.

“Just don’t do it again,” Dean tells her, though there’s no bite to his words, and exhausted he flops down into the gray chair at her side. “Have you been awake long?”

“About two hours,” she says, digging her spoon into the jello. “The doctor said I’ll need to stay until the weekend.”

“Yeah, they mentioned that yesterday. He tell you what was wrong?”

“I’m anemic, but all their tests for causes came back negative. It looks like I just need to eat more red meat.”

Dean nods.

“That and maybe give your friends a little primer on the differences between human and fairy biology,” he says, and Mary pauses with her spoon half raised to her mouth. She stares at him in shock. The jello jiggles.

“I was in the garden,” she breathes, wide eyed, “under the old apple tree.”

“Yep,” Dean says, lips popping emphatically on the P. “your buddy Joshua found you. Took you back to Avalon where Flagstaff inadvertently made things worse by extracting all the iron from your blood.”

“How did you find me?”

Briefly, Dean considers telling her about the blue-eyed fairy he almost killed, but the thought makes his chest ache, so he gives her a weak smile and shakes his head.

“That’s a long story for another day,” he tells her. “But trust me, it’s a doozy.”

Lowering her spoon, Mary reaches out to clutch at his hand.

“You can’t tell anyone,” she says.

“Who am I going to tell?”

Mary opens her mouth, then snaps it closed again.

“Good point,” she says, and settles back against her pillow, already worn out.

“Sammy’s gonna be here in a few days,” he says, taking the cup of jello and putting it on the overbed table. “You should rest up so you’ll have the energy to braid his hair.”

She cracks a smile at that.

“I like his long hair,” she says sleepily.

“I know you do, Mom,” Dean tells her, leaning forward to kiss her on the cheek. “Get some sleep.”

It doesn’t take long for Mary to pass out again, and Dean sits with her until a nurse comes by to tell him visiting hours are over. He doesn’t wake her before he goes. Just leaves a note to tell her he’ll be back tomorrow, and that he’ll bring her something to read. 

 

* * *

 

He goes back to the house via his own place, grabbing a few spare clothes, and taking a quick shower, and for the first time in years he cooks dinner in his mother’s kitchen. Grilled cheese isn’t exactly a culinary masterpiece, but it’s the best he can do right now. While the bread slowly browns he stares out into the dark garden and decides to head down to the apple tree in the morning.

He has to let Joshua know that his mom is okay. If he happens to want to ask after Castiel as well, that’s nobody's business but his own.

Before he knows it, the next day has dawned, and as he dresses he finds himself checking his clothes to make sure he looks okay. It’s ridiculous, really. It’s not as though he’s going to see Castiel at the bottom of the garden. But, he thinks, maybe I can convince Anna to shrink me down to their size again. Just for a couple of hours so he can visit Castiel in his bower. He’s still thinking about it as he makes his way toward the back door, and after hesitating for a moment he grabs a couple of things from the kitchen cupboard to bring him.

When he gets to the garden, it’s still and quiet, and he sits down under the tree to wait.

It’s not long before he sees a flash of golden wings.

“Hey, Anna,” Dean says as she flies over to him, arms crossed over her chest as she hovers at eye level with fast beating wings.

“Were the doctors able to help her?” she asks, and when he nods she sinks a little in the air, her wing beats slowing and a little of the tension easing out of her shoulders. “Joshua will be relieved.”

“Yeah, I know the feeling.”

As tactfully as he can, he tells her about the anemia and what made it so bad, and she looks stricken as she agrees to pass on the information to Flagstaff. Dean makes sure she knows that Mary isn’t upset about it. Anna is still sure Flagstaff will take it to heart.

“It’s in her nature,” she says with a concerned wrinkle in her brow. “But she’ll be glad to learn.”

It’s not until she’s about to fly away that Dean manages to ask after Castiel. The look Anna gives him make him shift uncomfortably on the flowerbed.

“His wings are the same,” she says, darting suddenly to the side to dodge an apple blossom as it floats down from the tree above. “And he only allows visitors under sufferance. But that’s to be expected.”

Suddenly, the thought of showing up unannounced at Castiel’s bower seems selfish. It’s Dean’s fault that Castiel was hurt, after all. He might have started considering the fairy a friend at some point, but for all he knows Castiel still thinks of him as the guy who broke his wings. Seeing Dean would surely do nothing but upset Castiel further, and that’s the last thing he wants. He can’t ask to go visit him, Dean thinks. And Castiel can’t leave Avalon.

Somehow, the thought of never seeing him again makes Dean want to sleep for a month.

He looks down at the paper bag of food in his hands. It’s not much--a big slice of the apple pie from the fridge wrapped in tinfoil, a bag of honey cashews, and a hershey’s bar--but Castiel likes sweet things, and he figures it won’t hurt to at least send those back with Anna.

He holds the bag up.

“You think you could magic these down to your size?” he asks her, and she raises a brow. “I uh… it’s a gift. For Cas. Thought he might like some comfort food.”

Anna studies him for a long moment before she reaches a decision, and when she nods Dean balances the bag on his spread palms. With the briefest touch and a shimmer of light, the bag is tiny on Dean’s palm, and Anna darts down to pick it up.

“Tell him I hope he’s feeling better,” Dean says, and with a sad kind of smile, Anna flits away toward the base of the tree. 

 

* * *

 

It’s as he’s driving back from the hospital that afternoon that the radio weatherman forecasts rain, and Dean has an idea.

At the next intersection he turns left instead of right, and drives to the hardware store, then back to his workshop on the other side of town. It’s not exactly out of his way. He needed to call his clients anyway, to let them know there’ll be a delay of a few days on their orders.

Still, that’s the last thing on his mind as he makes measurements and works the table saw through short lengths of pine. He works through the night, pausing only to accept a pizza delivery around ten-thirty, and by morning the smell of wood shavings and varnish is all he knows.

He heads straight to the hospital to spend a couple of hours with Mary, and falls asleep in the uncomfortable chair by her bed.

“What’s on your mind?” she asks him when he blinks blearily awake, and he’s about to say he’s just been worried about her when she adds, “Don’t try and tell me it’s just me.”

Perhaps it’s from all the varnish fumes he spent half the night breathing in, but he finds himself spilling the entire story without meaning to. When he gets to the part about wanting to make it up to Castiel, and what he’s spent the night doing, Mary smiles at him.

“Go on, then,” she says, nudging him in the shoulder. “Go finish your work. I’m sure he’ll love it.”

“Yeah?”

She just looks at him in place of answering, and he knows that expression too well. It’s the same one she gave him when he told her he wanted to find the perfect birthday present for Lisa Braeden in the eighth grade.

“Alright,” he says. “I’ll be here to pick you up in the morning.”

“Good luck, sweetheart,” she tells him.

“I’ll need it,” he says, and ducks out through the curtain. 

 

* * *

 

The varnish has dried by the time he gets back to the workshop, and after a brief stop at the nearby mall to grab a few finishing touches, he brings his project back to his mom’s house.

Carefully, he makes his way down to the garden, finding a nice flat patch of bare earth behind the tree, flanked by hyacinth and foxgloves, and digs into the ground around it a little, making sure any sudden rainfall will run away. When he’s done, he sits down in the space where he’d waited yesterday, cross legged and silent, and waits.

It’s a long time before there’s any movement, and when he sees blue instead of gold his heart pounds hard. But the fairy that flutters over in front of him is a dark haired woman in a black tunic like Castiel’s. Another guard, Dean realizes. Perhaps Castiel’s replacement. She eyes him with distrust.

“You are Dean Winchester,” she says as she lands softly on the handle of Mary’s gardening trowel, her wings folding against her back.

“That’s me,” he agrees, looking down at her. “I was hoping to speak to Anna.”

“She’s looking after Castiel today.”

“Is he okay?”

“No thanks to you.”

With a sigh, Dean nods and looks at his hands.

“I just… I wanted to make sure he was doing alright. And I made something for him.”

She looks surprised at that, her brows raising as her blue eyes widen, wings spreading out wide behind her.

“You did?”

“Yeah, I, uh… it’s probably dumb. But I thought… he said he liked coming out here, but I know he can’t anymore because of his wings. So I made him a place so he can watch the garden and the bees and stuff without worrying about rain or birds or whatever.”

He raises his hand, about to point past her toward the tiny house he built, and freezes at her fearful squawk.

“Shit, shit, I forgot, are you--I’m sorry,” he sits on his hands, staring at the fairy. “I didn’t mean to.”

“You need to be more careful.”

“I know.”

Sighing, the fairy smooths down her tunic and lifts off the trowel, wings beating fast behind her as her feet hover above it.

“I’ll tell Castiel about your gift.”

“Thank you..?” Dean says, trailing off, and the fairy inclines her head.

“Hannah.”

“Thanks, Hannah. And I’m really sorry.”

She doesn’t tell him it’s alright, but she sends him a half smile before she flies toward the base of the apple tree, and Dean figures that’s about as close as he’s going to come to forgiveness. 

 

* * *

 

It’s a quarter after midnight when someone starts pounding on the door, and Dean jerks awake from his place on the couch, shoving his quilt to the floor.

Bleary eyed, he stumbles toward the front door, and it’s not until he gets there that he realizes the sound is coming from the back. When he pulls it open he’s fully awake in an instant.

Standing on the back step, six feet tall and shuffling awkwardly on his feet, is Castiel. His wings are still drooping behind him, a little faded, but his eyes are bright, and his face is flushed.

“How are--” Dean starts, then shakes his head, stepping back to let him inside.

“Anna put a charm on me,” Castiel tells him, moving into the kitchen and pausing at the table. “It won’t last long. Maybe an hour?” He runs his fingers over the surface as he looks around the room, then glances back at Dean with a raised brow. “This looks familiar.”

“Yeah, I uh… I guess I’m not so creative after all,” he clears his throat, unable to process the embarrassment he’s sure he should feel over modelling Castiel’s tiny house after the home he grew up in. He can’t seem to stop staring at Castiel in awe. “Cas, don’t get me wrong… I’m thrilled to see you. But what are you doing here? What if the charm wore off before you got to the house?”

“I wanted to thank you, and...” Castiel hesitates, “and I wanted… that is, I hope that you might be able to help me.”

“Help you? Is this to do with your wings?”

Castiel nods, looking at the table.

“Of course I will,” Dean says, trying to catch his eye, “Cas, seriously. Whatever it takes. I want to help.”

His nerves are palpable, a third presence in the room, and Dean studies him.

“I thought you said there was no way to fix them.”

“There’s one way,” Castiel says.

“Why didn’t you mention it before?”

“Honestly, I didn’t think it would work. But then you sent the food, and you made me the house, and Anna said… I mean, I thought… well.”

Castiel takes a deep breath and looks up at him.

“What?” Dean asks, though his voice comes out a little breathless, and Castiel doesn’t wait another moment before reaching out. His hand is warm where it rests against the side of Dean’s neck, his thumb stroking slowly upward, and Dean barely has a moment to think about how nice it feels before Castiel steps forward to kiss him.

The touch of his lips is soft, as though he’s afraid Dean is going to flinch away. Dean just catches hold of his waist to pull him closer. He tastes of cinnamon and apples, and Dean thinks he must have eaten the pie he sent. The thought warms him all over, and he lets his mouth fall open, kissing him back more deeply until he feels as though the floor has disappeared from beneath his feet, and--

“Whoa,” Dean clutches him more tightly, staring down at the kitchen tiles that are suddenly a good two feet away.

“I guess it worked,” Castiel says, and carefully drifts back down with an awed kind of smile on his face, his eyes glistening.

When they land with a soft bump, Dean relaxes his grip and looks past his shoulders to see his wings extended, beating soft and steady. They almost seem to glow at the edges, silver-edged in the moonlight.

“How?” Dean asks, and Castiel only smiles more widely, leaning in to kiss him again.

 “You’re familiar with all the fairytales, Dean,” he says against Dean’s lips. “Why don’t you tell me?”


End file.
